Every once in a while I come across a book that I think I’ve “figured out” in the first few pages. That doesn’t mean it’s not a good read–Michael Chrichton and Dan Brown, both good writers, have quite formulaic books that are nonetheless a lot of fun–but there is a lot of literature out there that is, frankly, predictable.
But the best of those manage to surprise you anyway.
Last Dance of a Black Widow gives away its premise in the title–it’s about a woman who’s spent her life murdering husbands, and is now made to atone for her sins–and if the story were left at that, this would be an unremarkable book. But the “black widow” trope isn’t the focus of the story at all, merely an icebreaker that opens up a delicate and thought provoking series of questions.
The greatest literature almost treats plot as a secondary consideration. It’s there, but it doesn’t matter much at all compared to the theme of the work. Think of Catcher in the Rye (one of my all time favourite novels); lots of stuff happens to Holden, but none of it really matters in the larger context of the work. It’s not about a young teenager’s adventures in New York City, it’s about how he copes with them. While I wouldn’t put Last Dance in the same category as that seminal work, it works in a similar way. The trope used to set up the story isn’t so much a plot point as it is an excuse to explore an important theme.
On the surface, the main question is what happens when we die?–but that’s not the focus either. The real questions are: how does one atone for or explain their actions in life? What happens when you run out of excuses? To whom do we answer? They’re questions that lie at the centre of the human condition–and more importantly, questions that don’t really have quantifiable answers. They’re open ended because each person will bring their own experiences and dogmas to the answer; they’re questions that are intensely personal. These are the questions good literature should ask.
I appreciate that despite the potential for some hardcore religious overtones, those are conspicuously absent. This makes the story more universal; and, as a person with complicated spiritual beliefs, I honestly probably would have stopped reading if it had gotten too preachy. With this story’s subject matter, it could easily have gone that way, and it’s just not my thing. I’ve read books that ask these same questions and try to answer them, but it always seems to leave a bad taste in my mouth; I’m not reading a book to be force-fed someone’s ideologies. Fortunately, Convissar makes no attempt to tell you what to think; he merely leads you through the story, and lets you make your own conclusions.
Inasmuch as that, I wish the story were longer. It’s a pretty quick, one sitting read, and I wanted it to keep going. And yet, there’s nothing missing. The main character–Abbey Whistler–is well explored, there’s some great pathos and development, and a satisfying conclusion. The writing itself is excellent. This is actually a good strategy for an Indie Writer, I think–grab the reader and leave them wanting more. I’m eager to read more of his work–this is another Indie I’ll keep my eye on.
One thing I didn’t like was the way the protagonist’s crimes are set up. From the title I assumed she had made a habit of murdering husbands, but Convissar found it necessary to provide a litany of her crimes. I’m a bit on the fence about this; from a narrative standpoint, it’s important to do this because it sets up what comes next. From the reader’s viewpoint though, I already knew she was a murderer—her crimes could have been summarized without losing much characterisation, and leaving behind a more concise story to boot.
But that’s a small complaint against a relatively strong story. The author makes some good choices here in making it approachable and universal. It’s even touching in places. This is an example of an antihero you love to hate. We’re intended to sympathize with her by virtue of her being the protagonist, but the author makes no excuses for her behaviour. We don’t sympathise because she’s been wronged, we do it because we see a bit of ourselves in the character—it’s only human to worry about how your sins will be judged. Even if you don’t believe in the afterlife, I think all of us worry to a certain extent about what people think of our actions, good or bad. That’s what makes this story powerful for me—it’s a catharsis, as we live vicariously through a character who’s being judged so we don’t have to. That’s the highest purpose of literature, and I’ll recommend this book on that alone.
Special Mention: Blink.
I picked up Last Dance for free at Kobo, and saw another book by Convissar that looked intriguing: Blink. In a move that’s very rare for me, I didn’t even really read the blurb for the book, except for one line: “It’s amazing how quickly everything can change in the blink of an eye.” That, and the powerful cover, sold me immediately.
And it doesn’t dissapoint. Again, it’s a quick read, though this story has a more light-hearted feel, a very tongue-in-cheek tone (pun very much intended) to it. I thought of it as a nice jaunt.
The premise is simple. Brian is a dentist, a down to earth man who loves his job and cares for his patients. But then he stumbles across something…well, I can’t spoil it for you, so you’ll have to find out for yourself. I’m not going to write a full review of this because it’s really just something you should go and read. It’s just plain fun. Really, go read it.
You can find Bradley Convissar on Facebook and Twitter; he’s got a Goodreads profile as well, but the site appears to be down. You can pick up Last Dance of a Black Widow and Blink on Amazon, or here and here on Kobo. Check them out!
On Wednesday, I’m getting back to my writing with an experiment–something may not end up working at all, but is going to be a lot of fun to try anyway!